The Schliemann Legacy (15 page)

The binoculars flipped back to Katrina. She approached the intersection half a block away from the hotel. She paused twice and he thought she might flee down the side street. Duman watched her and felt himself harden. He remembered the pleasure of his last night with Chanda. Momentarily, he considered abandoning his plan and taking the Greek to his bed. To experience her clinging to his body, her tensed, hard muscles pumping against his strong form...

The terrorist quickly cleared his head and turned the binoculars away from her. He panned down the street toward the Bacata. He knew the stores by heart. A women's boutique, an Italian shoe store, and a cosmetologist. The fourth shop was a small rattan importer, its window and sidewalk cluttered with baskets and furniture where shoppers had to funnel into a narrow space. Duman judged this to be the ideal shot.

Kontoravdis would die there.

He let the binoculars dangle on their strap and picked up the rifle. Holding the gun lengthwise along his body, he caressed his crotch with the smooth wood of the stock.

* * * * *

As Katrina approached the intersection, David looked left and right, desperately seeking the danger he felt. He knew his actions were becoming obvious, but he didn't care. Was the Greek at too great a risk? Should he intercept her?

His conscience bothered him. If he allowed Kontoravdis to continue, he might jeopardize her life. To use her made him no better than the man he wished to capture. But could he abandon such an excellent opportunity at Duman?

Where was the danger?

He looked at the six-story building across from the Bacata. The office tower was one floor higher than the hotel. The rooftop offered the perfect vantage point. He could hear the smooth cooing of the pigeons perched along the edge of the roof. Hundreds of the birds sat shoulder to shoulder along the length of the wall. Except in one three-foot section. Not a single pigeon roosted there.

He had found the threat. Duman had chosen well. David closed the distance between the Greek and himself.

* * * * *

Katrina paused in front of the Italian shoe store. She used the angled shop window as a mirror to study the tanned, muscular man crossing the intersection. She recognized him from the airplane the day before.

He had followed her all the way from Germany.

She walked on to the next window and paused again. The man was closer. If he was following her, he was doing a poor job of it. He must have picked up her trail near the hotel. Katrina breathed a sigh - an amateur.

She relaxed slightly now that she had identified the threat. Someone must really want her dead to have followed her from Germany. Katrina quickly prepared a counterattack, not pausing to consider who that someone might be.

She judged the man's height at five foot eleven, one inch taller than herself. She held her hands in front of her and flexed her fingers. The man moved closer.

Katrina passed in front of a cosmetologist's and shifted the satchel of money to her left hand. The cluttered sidewalk of the rattan shop next door presented the perfect defensive position. She took three more steps and stopped to gaze through the window, shifting her weight from right to left and back again. She could see her attacker's reflection in the glass.

He was only feet away.

David saw the rifle barrel jut over the lip of the rooftop. He propelled himself toward the Greek, intent on bringing her to the ground. But the woman dropped the bag she was carrying and pivoted to face him. Her hand shot up at his neck. Only a slight shift of his weight saved him from the disabling blow directed at his throat.

His left arm went numb as the woman dug her rigid fingers into his shoulder. He crashed into her stomach and she fell to the pavement in a tangle of baskets. David landed heavily on top of her, pinning her to the ground.

A bullet struck a tourist leaving the rattan shop. Spreading on impact, the projectile tore through the man's chest and exited through his back. The force sent him sprawling backward through the door of the shop.

Katrina saw the spray of blood erupt from the man's chest and knew the shot had been meant for her. The realization sent a wave of shock through her. She allowed the man who had pushed her down to pull her to her feet and drag her down the street after him. The front window of the corner boutique shattered as they passed.

Ducking low, they slid around the corner and ran.

Chapter 17 - BREAKFAST AND RAGE

The door to the hotel suite crashed open, startling Helene who dropped her magazine onto the bed. She had risen and showered an hour ago. By the time she had dried herself, room service had arrived, delivered by the same hopeful waiter as the night before. She had voraciously eaten the large breakfast of eggs, bacon, kippers, and fresh fruit. Since then, she had spent the time lounging on the bed while she finished the excellent coffee. She was still wrapped in a towel, with no plans of getting dressed for at least another hour.

When the door slammed shut, Helene thought she felt the room shudder. She sat up and looked into the outer room of the suite. She was about to speak when the wheeled cart with her breakfast dishes sped past the bedroom door. She heard the cart crash into a wall and tip over, littering the carpet with dirty dishes. Cursing and unintelligible mutterings added to the clamor. Cautiously, she slipped off the bed and approached the door of the outer room only to duck as a sofa cushion came flying at her.

"Damn it, Richard! Watch what the hell you're doing. What's your problem, anyway?"

Duman's eyes burned with intense rage as he turned to face her. His clenched jaw made the cords of muscle in his neck stand out in high relief. He slammed his fist against the wall and an intricately framed mirror slid to the floor. Duman flexed his hands as he walked toward her. Even the sight of the slim blonde wrapped in the short towel made him angry. She had been lounging all day, the lazy, empty headed bitch. He felt an almost overwhelming desire to hit her, but brought his anger under control and shouldered his way into the bedroom.

"It was the damn Jew. He had to interfere. I had everything arranged and he..."

Duman broke off when he noticed Helene's pout turn to a puzzled frown. He lowered himself into the small boudoir chair in the corner, closed his eyes, and concentrated. He thought of the sun sinking slowly over the Mediterranean. Calmed by memories of his native land, he began to think clearly and replayed the entire afternoon. His plan was so simple. Nothing should have gone wrong. The Greek was even standing still in the street. It was perfect.

He pounded one fist into his palm as his mistake suddenly became obvious. He should have shot the Jew first. Then the Jew could not have intervened. In an effort not to underestimate the woman, he had underestimated the Jew instead. Worse, he had ignored the Hebe. A mistake Duman would not make again.

The old man was good, he thought. Good, but not indestructible. The Jew had won the first round, but he could not protect Kontoravdis forever. The Greek would die and so would the Jew. And he, Duman, would be their executioner.

* * * * *

Helene sat on the bed and watched as Richard worked the fist of one hand into the palm of the other. The muscles of his forearms flexed repeatedly. She assumed a business deal had gone badly. For the life of her, she could not understand how anyone could get that worked up over some bit of stuffy business. Of course, he might have lost a lot of money. She could understand his anger at that. In her mind, only one thing rated with money.

In concert with that thought, she remembered last night. She thought about Richard's muscular body on top of her, under her, beside her. Never in her life had she experienced love like last night. Never in her life had she felt so alive. Sex was sex, but this
must
be true love, she thought. She needed him, needed him desperately. He brought life to her with his love. She would cease to exist without him.

They had made love for hours the night before. At times, Richard was gentle, tenderly bringing her to a climax. Other times, he was brutal. He teased and taunted until, out of desperation, she had to bring herself off. Helene rubbed her thighs together at the memory and could feel the dampness forming. In his current state, Richard would be intense, violent.

She wanted him that way. She wanted to see what he was capable of. She had to have him, now and later. For the rest of her life. She would never get enough of him. He would come with her to her grandfather's where they would secretly love through the night. Her grandfather would suspect and be furious, adding to the excitement. But, for now, she needed to have Richard's strong hands roughly grasping her body.

Richard ignored her as she walked over to his chair and knelt in front of him. Deliberately, she undid the buttons of his shirt and ran her hands down his chest. The sound of her sharp nails scratching the hairy skin aroused her further. The tingling heat between her legs increased. Still, he did not look at her.

Helene dropped the towel to the carpet as she stood. She pulled her long hair back and ran her hands over her body, pinching her hardened nipples, then pressing over her flat stomach. She let both hands slip between her legs and massaged herself until she thought she would climax. Then, she knelt again and worked impatiently on Richard's belt.

He brushed her hands away, but she persisted. Finally, she tugged his pants down to his knees and buried her face in his lap. At first, his limp condition surprised her, but it only strengthened her resolve to satisfy him. She would return some of what he had given her last night. She loved him more than she had loved anyone before. As she lowered her mouth on him, she thought about them being together forever.

* * * * *

Duman looked down at the blonde head bobbing up and down. Although her soft hair tickled the skin of his thighs as her warm mouth surrounded him, he did not respond. This stunned girl did not understand that, for one of the first times in his life, he had failed. How could this child expect sex after he had failed so miserably? She was an insignificant fool. Her greatest achievement was a multiple orgasm. She was unworthy of his attention.

He would dispose of her soon. When her usefulness ended, he could walk away from her and no longer have to listen to her whining about everlasting love.

As he watched Helene work on him, he thought of how nothing would please him more than to reach down and take her neck in his hands. He would squeeze her frail throat until the fragile bones snapped between his fingers. He could almost see her eyes pleading with him, begging him to release her as his grip tightened.

Slowly, he felt himself harden in her mouth.

Chapter 18 - SWISS SWEETS

Katrina and David ran for several blocks, darting through traffic and sneaking down filthy back alleys before they dared stop. They fled both the assassin and the police, reluctant to involve themselves in any official investigation. They slowed to catch their breath and scanned the area around
Calle
23. The wail of sirens was far behind. David turned toward the Greek woman, sensing her mistrust.

Katrina started to turn away, but stopped herself. She had no idea why she had allowed this stranger to lead her. He had given her ample opportunity to escape. And yet, she had stayed. She distrusted the man but needed to hear who and what he was. If he could not explain himself, she would leave.

She studied the man's rugged, lined face for some clue. His gray eyes had been as cold and hard as slate while he watched the street, but now she imagined she saw caring and respect in those eyes. He was attractive in a serene, mysterious way. She quickly reprimanded herself for the thought. The silence between them was becoming uncomfortable. Finally, the man spoke. Katrina was not surprised when he spoke almost flawless Greek.

"This is a rather awkward and abrupt meeting. My name is David Morritt." Katrina looked down at the offered right hand and then back at his tanned face. When she didn't return the handshake, David let his hand drop.

"I think you already know my name," Katrina said, watching his eyes.

"Yes, I do have you at a slight disadvantage," David admitted.

"If you don't mind, Mr. Morritt, I'll reserve thanking you for saving my life until I hear more. Who, or what, are you? How did you happen to be behind me at that opportune moment?"

David smiled at the calm, even tone of her voice. "Please, call me David. What I am is an Israeli agent. Mossad, to be specific."

Katrina looked harder at him. As she connected his name with the Mossad, some of the distrust left her eyes. "David Morritt of the Mossad. I've heard of you. You helped us with airport security after the TWA hijacking. You were quite the topic with everyone discussing so many rumors of your exploits. I pictured you much older."

"Some days, I am."

Katrina smiled for the first time since the attack. David took advantage of the shift in mood and looked around at the passing crowd. "Let's get off this street," he suggested.

"Where?"

"There." He pointed to a Swiss tearoom. "A neutral location."

In spite of herself, Katrina's smile broadened.

* * * * *

An elderly Swiss couple had bought
The Chesa
after moving to Colombia in the early sixties. They brought with them generations of delicious recipes and the superior service that made their native country famous. The main restaurant was on the upper floor of the quaint, two-story building. An archway, intricately carved with scenes of Switzerland, opened onto a small tea shop on the street level.

As they entered, David and Katrina could smell the warm, moist odors of the sweet, sticky pastries, strong Colombian coffee, and flavored teas. They checked each other for dust, scuffs, and other telltale signs of the earlier attack before they passed under the arch and walked through the nearly empty room to a table near the window. David deliberately positioned himself with an unobstructed view of the street and the room. Katrina sat opposite so she could watch the street and David.